To Disenchant a Dreamer
by ccalypso
Summary: Søren Andersen is a poor farmhand with a lifelong desire to becoming a soldier. His only means of ever accomplishing his wish are to leave his family to try and follow in the footsteps of his late father. Enlisting to train for the cavalry, he sacrifices all he's ever known to help his sisters and bring honour to the Andersen name once again. DenNor, side SuFin-Fantasy/Medieval AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story has been in my head for a long while, and after nearly a year of whittling down multiple AUs, plots, and story arcs, I've finally been able to bring this fic to life. Consider it in a vaguely-14th century era, research has been done but facts are hazy and inconsistent, so I had to work with what I was given. Huge huge /huge/ thanks to une-pomm3 on tumblr for agreeing to be my beta reader, I'd never be able to do this without her help! I hope you all enjoy this fic, and you can expect updates every 2-3 weeks as my senior year in high school is my highest priority.

I've never actually written a proper fic before, let alone any sort of real narrative. This may be a bit of a slippery slope for me, but I hope you will enjoy this story as I've been working on it for a long while! A big thanks to cloudartoh on tumblr for helping me with this chapter along with une-pomm3!

 **CHAPTER 1**

The sun's glow was a vibrant orange, sending bright rays across the kingdom as it sank low in the sky. Afternoon was melting into evening, long shadows now cast in the wakes of buildings and fences. Søren leaned against a tree, wiping sweat from his brow before combing a hand through his unruly blond hair. He'd spent his day in the field, the late summer heat having got to him hours before but, despite himself, he'd continued on working. Now, dozens of filled baskets were scattered around the empty field, and his sisters, who'd just returned from church, had taken on the duty of bringing them back to their family's house, which was more or less a glorified shed. The Andersens didn't have much money to go around, but God, were they thankful for what they had; there was a roof over their head and most always food on their plate, and they couldn't complain. But Søren, oh what a boy, he had much more in mind.

It was times like these, times where he would sit and catch his breath after a long day of work , staring wistfully down into the village, that he wished he could do more for his family. He was young, barely twenty two years old, and lacked the education and social status to ever become more than a farm hand. But the castle, the extravagant, elegant castle that sat atop a hill overlooking the town did nothing but taunt him. No, he didn't want royalty; he thought it would only make him corrupted and scornful, and he, such a bright young man with so much potential… It wouldn't suit him at all. Soldiers, however, were well kept, respectful, and they made more in a day than Søren's family made in a month. He would give anything to be able to join them.

As a child, he'd always looked up to them; their shining armour and heroic status, their strength and will and courage were more than enviable. His own father had been of high social status, enough to join the cavalry. Even though their family was now poor, Andersen was a prideful name in their kingdom, known far and wide as one of bravery and chivalry. Søren's father had left him with an opportunity to follow in his footsteps, and now that he was old enough he wanted nothing more than to enlist, but his mother wouldn't allow it. She had a new reason every time – "It's too dangerous", "We need you here to help us" – and, while she was right, he felt it was unfair, both to him and the rest of his family; he had so much potential, he could help them so much more…

A sigh escaped him as he slowly stood up, walking towards the barn in a tired and thoughtful state of mind. His tattered shoes sank in the soft, loamy soil as he made his way across the field, his mind still occupied with thoughts of standing dignified in that suit of shining armour. He imagined now, as he always had, holding his sword and shield bravely in front of him, slashing and slicing through those who opposed him, fighting valiantly for his homeland. But now, as he unlatched the door to the family's barn and ushered the cows and horses out, those dreams seemed even further away than ever; his farm was all he had ever known. Søren turned back towards the castle as he opened the doors wide, his eyes shining.

He'd been of age to enlist for a few years now… so what was stopping him? ' _My family_ ,' he thought, scoffing at himself. It would be selfish to leave them now, his oldest sister was barely eleven. _'My mother, my sisters –_ he closed and locked the barn door _–_ _'_ _my work, my animals, my… Everything.'_

He heaved another sigh, now jumping over the fence that separated the pastures from the fields and moving to help gather the remaining baskets. He couldn't help but dream of wearing that suit of armour, holding that sword and shield, and seeing the gleeful looks on his family's faces when they knew there would be no more worrying about scraping by. He could be a hero, both for his family and the Kingdom, if only, if only he could justify it.

But now, as he walked back to his home, a basket under each arm and a grin plastered to his face as his sisters ran towards him, he didn't want to leave. His two sisters – the younger a spitting image of their mother, right down to her messy hair and crooked grin, while the older the polar opposite, her hair smoothed into plaits and her expression placid – meant the world to him. How could he ever leave home knowing he'd be leaving them behind?

"Søren, Søren!" They said excitedly, each grabbing a basket from under his arm after hugging him tightly around the waist.

"Whoa—Hey, hey!" He spluttered, laughing though somewhat winded by the impact. "How was your day?"

"It was fine," said Solveig, the oldest, as she lifted the heavy basket up to her chin, smiling warmly at him.

"We went up to the castle today!" Helle's gleeful voice followed as she pushed the basket, which was nearly as tall as her, across the floor. "We got to see the guards!"

"Did you, now?" Søren asked, his voice now a forced tone of cheeriness; he felt a pang of guilt in his chest as he smiled down at her; how could he ever leave these two?

He moved to give the two of them a hug, but was stopped by Helle, his six year old, two-foot-nothing sister, who wrapped herself around his shin and smiled giddily up at him. Now, he smiled sincerely, laughing with her and ruffling Solveig's hair as he limped into the house. She gave a huff, smoothing out her hair and shooting Søren a playfully annoyed look before swatting his hand away.

"Mom's still in town," She said, opening the door to their room and letting the barely-there glow of the evening light filter in. "I don't know what she went for, but I think they're building a trade route through the village. That's what she told me before she left."

"They are?" Søren's voice was quizzical as he pried a giggling Helle off of his leg and moved to sit against the wall. "What for?"

"Something to do with the Kingdom the Queen came from," She explained, sitting on her bed and unravelling her plaits. "The new Queen, not the dead one. They want a better relationship between the two Kingdoms, I guess."

"And where'd you hear this from?"

"I listen."

Søren rolled his eyes at Solveig's smug smile, now petting Helle's hair as she sat sleepily, though still giggling, in his lap. The sun had now sunk below the horizon, the faintest of pink glows shining above the trees and the sky a navy blue. He stared out the smudged window, still absently stroking his sister's hair as the other worked at her own. He could see the faintest of lights shining through the ornate windows of the castle, and his mind wandered back to where it was a few minutes before. His expression was longing, and he let his head loll to the side as he daydreamed once again.

"What's troubling you?" Solveig's voice brought him out of his thoughts, and he looked over to see her giving him a puzzled look. Her expression was placid, but her eyes hinted that she knew more than she wanted to let on. She followed where his eyes had been and stared at the window, seeing the glowing lights of the castle and sighing lightly as she turned slowly back to him.

"Nothing," Søren said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp as he stood up, carrying a sleeping Helle in his arms. He laid her down in the bed next to Solveig's, gently bringing the covers over the younger girl's shoulders and kissing her forehead as the other gave him a diminishing look.

"We both know you're lying," she remarked, an eyebrow quirked as Søren made to smooth out the covers of the bed, not looking at Solveig until he'd put on his most convincing grin.

"I'm fine, don't worry about me," he said hastily, ruffling her hair again and chuckling at her. His smile faltered when she didn't swat away his hand like normal, but rather stared at him with her eyebrows raised, her arms crossed, and her mouth set in a frown. He couldn't help but truly laugh at this.

"You're 'bout as intimidating as a kitten right now," he joked, now smoothing down her hair for her as her frown deepened. "Don't worry about me, okay? I'm fine."

"You're not fine," she pushed, grabbing his hand from her head and holding it in her own. Her eyes were now pleading as she stared up at him. "What's wrong?"

Søren hesitated for a moment, meeting her gaze and weighing his thoughts. How could he lie to her, his own sister? He loved the two more than anything, and now one was sitting in front of him, truly worried about him.

"You're wise beyond your years, kiddo," he sighed, kneeling down in front of her bed and holding her face in his hands. "It's nothing you have to worry about, alright? I told you, I'm fine."

Solveig frowned at him again, her dark blue eyes searching his as Søren patted her cheek and tried to give her a convincing smile. "Fine," she huffed, falling backward onto the bed and turning away from him, dropping the subject. "But I'm not done with you yet. I'll get it out of you later, whether you like it or not."

Søren sighed then, standing up and running a hand through his hair. "You're exhausting, Veig." He moved to grab the sheets from her bed, but she'd already begun tucking herself in. "Clever, but exhausting."

"I know."

With a laugh at her smug smile and a kiss to her forehead, Søren left the room. He was still smiling as he closed the creaking door and entered the landing, where his mother sat at a small table, a bag on the floor next to her and a grin on her face, despite the evaluative look in her eyes. His smile broadened as he stepped over and wrapped his arms around her.

"When'd you get home?" He asked once they parted, sitting across from her and taking the cup of water she offered him.

"A while ago," she said, her voice drawling. "Didn't want to interrupt you." She smiled over at him. Søren nodded in thanks, knowing her kind-hearted intentions. His lips parted and he made to speak, but his mother piped up before he'd gotten the opportunity.

"So?" Her tone was expectant, but Søren wasn't sure what for.

"So…"

"Solveig's never wrong." She looked up at him over the rim of her cup, eyebrows raised and though her mouth was hidden, he could see she was grinning smugly. Søren laughed then, setting his cup down and leaning back in his chair; Helle may have been the one to take after their mother appearance-wise, but Solveig had her clever, inquisitive personality.

"Look, it's— it's complicated. I don't think you want to get into it at this hour," he explained, running a nervous hand through his hair. Now that he'd been confronted with it by his mother, it was a far more serious topic. She'd always been sensitive to the idea of him leaving home, be it for a career or for a short trip. Søren's father had passed away five years before, having been killed in action as a part of the cavalry and ever since the family had been in shambles. Just the thought of having Søren gone left his mother in a hysterical, faraway state; without him around, she wasn't able to function. He'd taken on the role of both a loving father and a caring brother to his sisters, and the impact he'd have on the family if he left would be devastating.

"No, it's important to talk about things," she said, an air of nonchalance about her that he knew would vanish in seconds if he brought up what was on his mind.

With a sigh, Søren looked up at his mother, his eyes cloudy and lips parted as if to speak, though he was still apprehensive. As he stared into her pale blue eyes, the same shade as his own, he couldn't help but feel another pang of guilt in his chest. How could he do this to her? He knew the pain he would cause, the damage he'd do if he decided to leave now. But his family would be far better off. Even if they were without him, they'd be in a far more comfortable situation, and that's what mattered to Søren. But then again, wealth means nothing if you're miserable, and he'd seen his mother in one of her mournful spells. Even if they did have money, he'd never let himself live their grief down.

"It's just… I've been thinking about how—you know, how I'm an adult now, I should be getting a job soon, y—"

"Is this not work enough?" His mother gestured to the ajar door, outside of it lay their farmland.

"No, no, it is! It's just that I feel I could do more for us," Søren said, his voice slow as he carefully picked over his words. He could tell though, by the distant look in his mother's eye, that she knew what he was trying to say. Still, he pressed on. "We need the money, mother, this isn't going to keep us going for long."

She said nothing, but simply stared at him, her brows furrowed and a deep frown carved into her face, making the lines of her cheeks and eyes stand out.

Søren sighed again, running his hand through his hair as he fumbled over his words. "I know we've talked about this, and… And I know how you feel, but please—please, for them," he said, his voice waning as he turned toward his sisters' room. He stared at the wall for a moment, breath hitched and trying to think of what he could say to make this any easier. When words failed him, he turned back to her, a look of pleading desperation now apparent on his face; but now his mother was staring blankly out the window, expression placid and eyes betraying nothing. She was gone.

' _Always this, why always this?'_ He thought, setting his elbows on the table and resting his forehead in his hands. The two stayed like that for a long while, Søren's mind racing while his mother's was devoid of thought. There was little point in trying to push himself further, but he couldn't help but dream, despite knowing the consequences it'd have on his mind. It was selfish, yes, and he knew this, but someday, he thought, there'd come a day where he'd get what he'd always dreamed of. Someday, rather than becoming distant, his mother would finally say—

"Fine."

Søren's head shot up so fast his vision began to swim, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Wh—"

"Fine." Her voice was far more forceful.

But a single glance at his mother told him that no, it wasn't. Something was definitely wrong. Søren stood up from the table, moving quickly over to where his mother sat, but he was halted by her angered outburst.

"Just go! Leave!" She shot him a fiery glare, one that he'd never witnessed before. A stir came from the room adjacent, but Søren was far too preoccupied with his mother to notice.

"M-mother, I—" He began, but his mother had shot up from her seat and left the house, slamming the door behind her. Never had he ever known this side of his mother… this was foreign to him. Fear prickled inside him as he stood rigidly on the spot, staring at the back door, too shocked to move. It wasn't until the bedroom door creaked open and a drowsy Helle ambled out that Søren had shifted. He picked her up, bringing her back to her bed despite her whining protests and meagre punches to his shoulder.

"What happened? I wanna s—s—see…" she yawned huffily as Søren struggled to tuck her back into bed, her kicking keeping the covers at bay.

"Nothing, nothing, just go back to bed," He pressed a feather light kiss to her forehead, trying to hide the panic in his voice as he glanced out the open door of the room. His mother was still outside.

Søren sat down on the floor, hands shaking as he wracked his brain for any sane thought of what he could do now; his mother was far too upset with him and reconciliation did not seem a possibility, and at this hour, he'd nowhere to go. He buried his face in his hands, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he rocked back and forth on the ground. _'_ _What am I going to do, what am I going to_ do _?'_ He thought, and despite his edgy demeanour, his mind was now blank; all reason he'd had was lost. A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his hysterical state, and he peered up to see Solveig standing over him, her expression guarded.

"Solveig," he croaked, his voice quiet, both wary of waking his sister and weary of his mother.

"You're leaving, aren't you?" She asked, though it seemed more of a statement than anything. Before Søren could respond, she continued. "I knew it. Here—I'll help you pack your things."

On any other occasion, He would have joked, said something along the lines of 'No need to be so eager, now'. But right now, he was a loss for words, and as he watched his sister open the crate that sat at the end of his bed, her expression resolute, he couldn't find any cheer in himself.

"Are you…?" He began, but hadn't known what he would say. Solveig cut him off quickly, staring at him with clouded eyes.

"It's inevitable now. She doesn't want you here." Her voice was sharp, making the blunt statement hit even harder.

"Solveig, you don't know that—"

"I do. I heard it all."

Søren's face fell, his previously incredulous expression replaced with one of unguarded devastation.

"Solveig…" He said, dropping his usual pet names as he moved to embrace her. She didn't return the gesture, though, and kept on piling his things into a small bag.

"I hear it every time, it's nothing new," she said, looking back at him, her eyes still betraying no emotion. While it was a dreary attempt, Søren knew it was her way of consoling him. "Well—you getting your way is a bit new, but not completely unexpected."

His eyes fell to the bag she was packing and he moved to help her, but she swatted his hands away, staring at him coldly.

"I'll do it." She spared him no kindness as she worked, ignoring him all the while. "Besides, I'm going to have to play the parent now…"

Søren's breath hitched at this, and he choked back tears as he hugged her again. "Solveig, I never meant for any of this to happen, I—"

"You're lying"

"Solv-"

"If you hadn't meant for it to happen, you would never have brought it up again in the first place!" Solveig spat, her voice as angered as their mother's had been minutes before. But, as Søren looked pleadingly to her, he saw tears shining in her eyes.

Neither said anything for a long while, Søren sitting staring blankly at the wall as his thoughts shifted between his sister and his mother and the fact that his greatest wish had come true in the most horrible way possible. His dream turned to a nightmare, and now that he knew he was no longer welcome in his home, he wanted nothing more than to take it all back and never speak of it again. But it was too late now, and as Solveig turned to him, tears streaming down her face as she shoved the bag toward him, he let his own tears fall from his eyes. They both stared at each other for a moment, Søren's expression vulnerable while Solveig's cold, despite her tears. After a few seconds, though, her face crumpled, and she fell into his chest, sobs wracking her small frame.

"Don't go…" She croaked between sobs. "I don't want you to go…"

Søren held her tightly, trying his hardest not to cry in front of his sister, trying to give her some form of strength, but in his state, it was no use. He sobbed with her. They stayed there a while, both of them knowing it'd be the last time they'd see each other in a long, long while. Søren stroked her back, trying to offer some comfort as Solveig struggled to regain her composure. They separated several minutes later, tears still streaming down their faces.

"Solveig," Søren said shakily, standing up and holding both of her hands in his. He struggled to continue, his mind and heart both far too weary to withstand this any longer. But as she stared expectantly up at him, he forced himself to continue. "Make sure you're a good girl, alright? Don't get into any trouble." She nodded tearfully at this, eyebrows furrowed and lip trembling.

"Make sure you get to bed on time, and help Mother as much as you can; she's going to need you to be strong— can you promise me you'll stay strong?" Another nod. "Take good care of Helle for me, alright? You're a good girl. You're smart, you're kind; I know you can do this. I believe in you." He knelt down then, embracing her one last time.

She began to sob again, and it took all of Søren's will to pull away from the embrace. He pressed a feather light kiss to her forehead. "I love you," he said, a broad, watery smile on his face as he stood up again, ruffling her hair. "I'll miss you."

Solveig hadn't moved to smooth her hair down, and instead grabbed him around the waist, now practically wailing, though Helle now slept soundly a few feet away. She shrieked 'Don't go, don't go' between sobs, and Søren's smile, though he tried to stay strong, faltered so as he pried her off of him.

"We'll see each other again someday, Veig. Don't cry." He sat down on the floor again, refusing to leave while knowing the state she was in. He held her face between his hands, stroking her cheeks and wiping away her tears with his thumbs.

"Promise?" Solveig's voice was small, barely a whisper

"Promise," he answered, kissing her forehead once again and, after she'd stopped crying, stood up, ushering her to bed and tucking her under the covers. "I'll come visit, okay? Sometime when Mother isn't so upset anymore."

Solveig nodded in reply, her bottom lip still trembling though her tears were gone.

He turned and left the room after a reluctant few minutes with his sisters, and now that he'd left, he could hear Solveig sobbing again. It took every ounce of strength in him not to go back, and now he had no choice but to leave. With nothing but tears in his eyes and guilt in his heart, Søren left his home and set off down the cobbled path to the village. There was no looking back now, and only one thought was on his mind; he had to do this, for Solveig and for Helle. He had to do it for them.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Søren's footsteps echoed against the cobblestone streets of the village, the early hours of the morning bearing vacancy and silence only broken by his presence. Despite the humid heat of the summer, Søren had been cursing himself for not grabbing his coat on the way out of his house. Pulling the sleeves of his thin shirt down over his wrists, he thought only of the cold and forced himself to forget what had just happened; he'd been travelling for hours with a heavy heart, and he'd be walking for miles still to come.

But still, as he tried to keep his mind focused on the present, it wandered to the past. His mother would not get over this for a long while, and he couldn't stomach the idea of leaving her in such a state. And his sisters… Oh god, his sisters. They were barely old enough to take care of themselves and Søren couldn't imagine them living on their own, but with his mother so unhinged, it was likely what they were going to have to go through. Swallowing thickly as he held back his pent up emotion, he trudged on.

Søren passed rundown buildings, closed taverns, and dark households as he walked through the streets, weaving his way through the many villages, determined to make it to the castle before daybreak. But, the pale blue light shining from above the treeline dampened his spirits. This was so unlike him, even Søren noticed, but he couldn't help but be at odds with himself; his usually cheery personality was nothing but downtrodden by the consequences of his own actions and he could only feel sorry for himself. He doubted his ability to do this, to become a soldier. His lifelong dream could only push him so far and he knew he lacked the strength needed, both physically and mentally, to become a soldier, let alone the social status to become a knight.

Now was no time for self-pity, and as another village shrunk behind him, the castle now well in his reach, he knew there was no looking back. The yellow glow of the sun was now shining across the kingdom, and Søren mood began to lift some; for a moment, he no longer felt sad. No, he was going to do this, he was going to prove himself and make his mother and sister proud. Their tears of sorrow would turn to tears of joy, and his own guilt would turn to strength. Yes, he could do this; he would do this, and he'd put his heart and soul into it. His triumphant thoughts were stopped, though, as he came face to face with a pair of armour-clad guards, both much larger than him in stature.

"State your name and business," one had said, his voice husky and sharp, setting Søren on edge.

"S-Søren Andersen," he said, his voice as shaky as he was. "I want- I'm looking to enlist." When the two guards gave him a confused stare, as if sizing him up, he added hastily, "for the military."

It was a long moment of silence before either of the two guards moved, but Søren was more than relieved when they stepped aside and opened the first set of gates for him, bidding him instructions rather than a farewell.

"You'll need to go through the side entrance – it's next to the stables, you won't miss it. They'll deal with you from there."

It took nearly an hour of interrogation, searches, and Søren insisting that he was of age for the guards to let him into the castle. But by the time he was escorted into the room he'd be staying in, a room shared by another fifty men, training was about to begin. He'd barely had the chance to set his things down and change into the robes they'd given him before he was interrupted by someone.

"I wouldn't recommend getting too comfortable, we'll be leavin' in a few minutes," the stranger said, his voice deep and tangled with a thick accent. When Søren turned to face him, he reeled back a bit, expecting neither his height nor his stature. A good few inches taller than him and at least two thirds his width, and with a glare more intimidating than he'd ever seen, this was no man to meddle with.

"Ah, s'that right?" Søren asked, shaking off his alarm and trying to hide the excitement that rose in his voice; despite his exhaustion, he was more than ready to become a soldier. This was his life's purpose, how could he not be looking forward to it?

The other man didn't respond verbally, but rather grunted, tossing a linen shirt unceremoniously onto his bed that laid next to the one Søren had claimed a few moments before. After a few moments of staring him up and down, the man finally spoke as he walked past him.

"We should be going," he said simply, not waiting for Søren to catch up though he stopped speaking until he heard his footsteps next to his. "S'never a good idea to show up late. Especially not for you."

"No, well, I wouldn't have assumed as much either," Søren laughed, not missing but ignoring the subdued tone in the other's voice. "You're a bit of an odd guy – What's your name, anyway?"

"Marten."

"Well, it's _lovely_ to meet you Marten," he said, voice sarcastically silky and testing his luck. When the taller man shot him a vexed look, though, Søren dropped the guise and continued on. "I'm Søren - Søren Andersen."

"Mm," Marten said, his gaze forward and annoyance toward him turning to nonchalance. The two continued on in awkward silence for a few minutes, Søren now focused on remembering the path that he was being taken on rather than making conversation with the other, more stoic man.

The winding halls of the castle, while confusing and foreign to Søren, seemed nothing more than child's play to Marten. If it weren't for the guards standing at many of the doors and hallways, there would have been no clues as to where they were going, or where they could go, for that matter. But no sooner had he begun to understand where he was going did Marten pull back an old wooden door, revealing a field that stretched out for at least a half kilometre. There were already some people there, tall shadows being cast in the early morning light, but for the most part, the pitch was empty. Søren stared, wide-eyed as he looked out over the expanse of land.

"This is where we train," Marten said, pulling the other from his dreamy state of mind. "It's the weekend, the instructors won't be here 'til later – be good for you to get used to how things work."

Before Søren could respond, a thin wooden plank was tossed toward him, hitting him in the arm before clattering to the ground. It caused him little pain, though, as the dowel was light and flimsy without anyone wielding it.

"I'd advise that you don't do that." He could have sworn a sarcastic smirk was showing on Marten's face.

"Well at least warn me, for God's sake!"

"Nobody will be warning you in a real battle. The point is to be on your guard," he said, and any trace of a smile he'd worn had been wiped clean, leaving irritation in its wake. "Do you really expect to be warned?"

"Well, no, I-" another strike, this time to the shoulder. "Hey, could you hold on a second?" Søren's voice, while sharp, betrayed his eagerness more than he'd wanted. But nonetheless he put on a mischievous grin, leaning down and picking the plank up off of the ground while staring Marten down. "Okay, now I'm-"

And in one fell swoop, Søren hit the ground, his legs having been swept out from underneath him by Marten.

"On your guard," he repeated.

The two continued like that for a good few hours, Marten, though he tried to go easy on him, defeating him time and time again after mere seconds of combat. Each time, he'd give Søren a new piece of advice - 'Don't let your knees buckle, you'll fall over', 'Stop standin' so hunched over, you're an easy target that way', 'You shouldn't stare, try and see everything' – but to no avail, as he was far worse than an amateur. Søren hadn't the slightest clue what he was supposed to be doing, and that coupled with the other's experience and size, the odds were against him in every possible way.

"You need to understand how this works," Marten said irritably, walking over to him for what seemed like the thousandth time that morning and pushing Søren's shoulders back and adjust his posture. "If you can't stand right, you won't be able to fight."

"I'm trying," Søren whined, just as frustrated as the other. "I swear, I'm trying! It's just hard, you're too good."

"I hardly think so."

"What?"

"I'm not that good, you're just awful."

At that, Søren's eyes narrowed, his eyebrows knitting together with anger. And, while he knew it was the truth, he was determined to prove him wrong. A strong, swift swing of his arms later, Marten was on the ground in front of him. But opposed to looking annoyed or even mildly off put, he seemed almost… content. His breath now coming in sporadic heaves, Søren stared down at him feeling a mix of rage and triumph coursing through him.

"Ah, thought so…" Marten lifted himself slowly off of the ground, grabbing the dowel he'd been using before and turning to face the other a moment later. At Søren's confused stare, he continued. "You function solely based on emotion."

"I… What?" Søren could only cock his head to the side, completely nonplussed.

"You're too hot headed-"

"I'm not-!"

"You'll have to either work with it or against it. Think of somethin' that makes you angry."

"Uh… Alright," he said, still irked by his comment, though he didn't think of something that enraged him; he couldn't. Rarely did anything upset him like that, and it never really lasted for long. His mind buzzed as he tried to come up with something.

And then it hit him; the night before, when he'd been kicked out by his mother. Not necessarily something that made him angry, but it was definitely nothing to bring a smile to his face, and he couldn't help but feel his heart twist painfully in his chest as he recalled the memory.

Marten didn't have to ask him if he was ready or not, the sour look on his face betrayed his thoughts. "Focus on that," he said, stepping backward and taking on a defensive stance. Søren followed, and on his count, the two sparred once more.

This time, the fight lasted longer than a few seconds; the two put up an equal effort. But while Marten was stronger and taller, while Søren was clever and light on his feet, and thus the fight turned into a war of attrition rather quickly. Each time Marten thought he'd had Søren cornered, he found a new way to fight back. They both grew tired, but neither was giving up, nor were they going easy on each other. Before they knew it the sun had risen high in the sky and most of the other soldiers had shown up along with their instructor, who hadn't bothered to stop the two.

"Getting tired yet?" Søren sneered, though a mischievous grin was plastered on his face as he evaded yet another one of Marten's strikes. A quick swing and a near miss at him told Søren that no, he wasn't, and he wasn't giving up anytime soon either. It was then that he realised he'd let his guard down, and let the thought that was supposed to motivate him slip from his mind. He redeemed himself as fast as he could, and focused solely on letting his emotions fight for him.

It was a split second, something he was sure he would have missed had he not been so enveloped in the fight that Søren saw his window to move in and take the battle. While Marten was regaining his balance from a strike a moment before, he dove, sweeping the other's legs out from underneath him. Marten hit the ground with a dull thud, but he was helped up a moment later by Søren, who wore a grin so wide his eyes wrinkled at the corners.

"So that's how it's done, eh?" Søren remarked, his eyes glinting.

"Yes, but you're far from perfect." Marten ran a hand through his dusty blond hair as he stood, taking both dowels in the other hand.

"But I beat you, and that's all that matters!" He pushed on, elbowing the other playfully in the shoulder. "I'm practically perfect now."

"Mm, sure."

Marten returned their makeshift swords to the small shed he'd gotten them from and ushered Søren back into the castle. Weaving his way through the halls once more, he quickly explained their other duties as servants of the royal family, something Søren hadn't realised he'd become until then.

"Servants? I thought we were the soldiers, the cavalry, the ones to protect th-"

"Not yet, we aren't," Marten sighed, an irritated edge to his voice. "We will be, but not yet. You've been here all of six hours, what'd you expect?"

"I don't know… But not that, that's for sure."

"We have to do work around the castle when we're not training," the taller of the two continued, wanting nothing more than to quiet Søren for a few minutes. "We train from sunrise to midday, and work from then 'til sundown."

"That hardly seems fair, why don't we train for longer? I want to practice more, I'm nearly perf-"

"It's the king's rules, and you're to obey them."

At Marten's sharp tone, Søren let his comments die down and instead followed him down a few flights of stone stairs that lead to a dark cellar. They ventured in, Marten's nonchalance overshadowed by the other's excitement. He walked closely behind the taller man and was buzzing as they travelled further and further into the chamber. His enthusiasm was quickly dampened when two heavy burlap bags were thrust into his arms, followed by Marten's voice echoing ahead of him beckoning him back up to the ground level.

Søren jogged heavily up to him, his feet dragging as he moved with far less vigor than usual; he was sure he was carrying more than his own weight in his arms and the journey upstairs took far more energy than any of the sparring they'd done that day. By the time they'd reached the top of the stairs, he was red in the face and panting, a stark contrast to Marten's seeming indifference.

"Where…" Søren began, trying to catch his breath as the two continued on their way. "Where are we going with these?"

"The kitchen," he replied flatly, shifting one of the three bags he was carrying in his arms.

"Which is where exactly…?" He was growing impatient, though that was likely due to how much he was exerting himself

"Not far."

Søren huffed at him, but said nothing more, and walked just behind him, hoping and praying that they'd be there soon. It was another five minutes before they arrived there, many others wearing there same uniforms having already dropped what they'd needed off. He'd been so preoccupied in taking in his surroundings – the vast hall was marvelous, with intricate arches made of stone that rose high into the ceiling and had been inlaid with the royal family's crest, and shelves and tables of dark, polished wood – that he hadn't noticed the young, rather short woman standing in front of him, trying to pry the bags out of his arms for him.

"Ah- thank you!" He said hastily, some cheer in his voice as he let her lift them from his grasp. "So, is this just for the royal family, or…?"

"Oh, no," she replied, looking up at him with a grin plastered on her face. Her olive green robes, which matched the colour of her eyes, dragged against the floor as she took a step back from him, placing the burlap sacks gingerly on the ground as she continued. "It's the Great Hall, we all use it here. Quite public, actually. Are you new here?"

Søren nodded a bit sheepishly, adjusting his sleeves and laughing when she could only reply with 'Thought so'.

"When is this room used, then? It seems pretty spotless, and a bit… formal," he continued on, still absently fumbling with the cuff of his sleeve as he stared up at the tresses of the ceiling, his eyes trailing down the elaborately decorated walls – portraits, suits of armour, and detailed tapestries hung along the sides of the room, while a set of large, engraved wooden doors, the ones they'd entered from, stood at the foot of the room, and a set of four extravagant, upholstered thrones were sitting elevated at the front.

"Most all the time, by the nobles at least," she explained, pushing her mousy brown hair off of her shoulders as she gestured around the room to where small groups of people sat, playing leisurely games of chess or messily tossing around overfull tankards. "It's generally where we all gather when we have no work to do, though seldom does that happen." Her words escaped her in a buttery, sarcastic tone, and Søren couldn't help but laugh along with her.

No sooner had they struck up a small conversation had they been interrupted. Another woman, much different in appearance with sleek jet black hair and ivory skin, had come bustling into the room. A small group of people was trailing her, each with equally edgy expressions, a poor mask of placidity betraying something else.

"Magdalena!" The black-haired woman called to her, picking up the front of her dress as she hurried into the room. At this, the woman Søren was speaking with turned around, a look of annoyance on her face momentarily before a smile replaced it, in high contrast to how the taller woman was carrying herself. "Magdalena," she repeated, "the King would like a word."

"Yeah, alright, one sec'," Magdalena replied, waving the other girl off and turning back to Søren, who was staring at her incredulously – who would push something like that aside so flippantly? – and bid him a cheerful farewell before setting off with the other woman.

He'd been so caught up in that that Marten had completely slipped his mind, and as he glanced around the room to find him once more, he was surprised to find him standing near the door with someone else – a blond haired man who was half his height had him thoroughly distracted in what seemed like a one-sided conversation. Only when Søren approach did he see Marten nodding along as the other spoke feverishly to him, his grin never wavering at his silent responses. It wasn't until Søren stood next to him and had placed a hand on the taller man's shoulder that the two broke from their conversation, and it took a moment for them to even notice his presence.

"Ah, who's this?" The short, round-faced man asked, his smile seemingly ever-present.

"Søren," he replied lamely, motioning towards him with all the vigor of a snail.

"Nice to meet you," His grin widened, and he stretched out his hand to greet Søren. "I'm Tino!"

"Nice t'meet you as well!" They shared their greetings, the only off part of the situation being Marten's stoicism as he sat between the two. "Now, uh, what are we doing next?"

"Nothin' right now," Marten said, finally breaking his own silence as he looked over towards Tino. "It's Sunday, we get the evening off s'long as we pull some of our own weight."

"Usually people just loiter around the great hall or the courtyard," Tino added, his elbow on the table as he leaned heavily against his hand. "Is there anywhere you wanna go?"

"Here's good!" As Søren spoke, he let himself flop down on the bench next to Marten, a look of guarded annoyance on his face as the cheery blonde smiled at him. "Where is the courtyard though? It'd be nice to know."

"Hmm, well- have you been to the stables yet?" Tino asked, staring at the wall behind Søren, deep in thought.

"Uh... Sort of, I walked past there once." Søren scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, a smile etched on his face that matched his gestures.

"Well it's near there, I can take you later." With that, Tino leaned back, entwining his fingers and cracking his knuckles as he let out a loud yawn. "S'nothing too special, just some plants and benches and whatnot. It's pretty, though probably nothing you haven't seen before."

Søren nodded at that, not yet wanting to tell him that he hadn't, in fact, been anywhere like that in his life. The shorter man seemed all too nonchalant about castle life, which left him to believe that he was more than used to living extravagantly.

It was a few hours before the three left the Great hall, Tino and Søren still continuing their lively conversation through the halls of the castle as they made their way to their quarters. By the time they'd arrived, the sun had set, and the halls of the castle were lit only by the torches that hung high on the walls.

"So you're new here, yeah? You haven't had a tour of the castle or anything yet then, I assume," Tino said absently as he fiddled with the the cuffs of his shirt.

"No, I haven't," Søren replied, sitting on his bed and yawning; now that the initial shock of everything had worn off, his forty waking hours had caught up to him and he was more than exhausted.

"I can take you around here when we get some down time- both of us will! Right, Mar?" As Tino spoke, he clapped Marten cheerily on the back, the taller man merely nodding in response. "Okay, tomorrow afternoon then, after training. That works for you?"

Søren nodded quickly, offering him a wide, grateful smile as Tino bid them both goodnight and headed elsewhere in the dark, cavernous room. By the time his footsteps had faded, Søren was nearly asleep; he hadn't even changed out of his work clothes, but he was too tired to even bother. But despite himself, he took his bag out to rummage through it in search of some form of change of clothes.

The moment he opened the bag, though, the faint glint of something caught his eye. He ignored what he'd been looking for for a moment, and instead let his hand clasp around the two small metal chains. Confused, he turned them around in his hand, curious as to what they were. It was only then that it occurred to him that he wasn't the one who packed the bag; it was Solveig.

And the moment he realised that, he understood. Two silvery chains - probably the entire worth of his family - were given to his sisters when they were born. Each of the chains held a ring, not of silver but of stone, with their names carved, jagged, into the side. They were a gift from a distant relative, someone Søren had never really met, but that didn't mean they weren't worth anything; countless times had Søren had to convince his mother not to sell them, and each time his reason had been that they were sentimental, not meant to be sold for profit.

Søren let his thumb brush along their names, a sad smile playing on his lips. _'Solveig, Solveig...'_ He thought, turning the chains over his hand. A wave of guilt washed over him once again as he thought of them - surely they weren't fine, not if their mother was in the same state now as she was the night before - but he couldn't let it bother him anymore. Allowing himself to wallow in self-pity would get him nowhere fast and leave him as little more than a hollow shell of his bright self.

With a sigh he fell, exhausted, onto the bed before rolling over onto his side as he held the two chains to his chest. It was another reminder, and maybe Solveig knew it too, of his reason for being here and following in the footsteps of his father. He draped them around his neck, and vowed to never look back on his decision ever again. He was here for a reason, and he'd be there to the bitter end if it meant carrying out and keeping his promise.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry this is so late! I promised 2 weeks and then... shit happened, I guess. I'll have to be taking a short hiatus from writing as I'm getting ready to go off to university and need to work on a portfolio. Thank you all for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

CHAPTER 3

The next day rolled in without much fervor. Søren was woken by Marten - much to his disdain - as he grumbled about having just a few more minutes, while the taller man ignored him, hoisted him out of bed, and left the room, the whiny blond in tow.

"That attitude will get you nowhere." Marten said, tone betraying his agitation. "You do what you're told, when you're told t'do it."

"Yeah, yeah," Søren said, waving him off nonchalantly as he winced at how sore he was from the previous day's training. "M'just tired."

Marten said nothing at that, and continued pulling him along down the hall and upstairs, where many others were already in a flurry of activity. Søren, however, couldn't have cared much less, and scrubbed tiredly at his eyes as they walked on.

"Did'ya not change out of those clothes last night?" Marten asked as he eyed the wrinkles in the other's shirt in apprehension.

"Er… No, I didn't. Too tired," he admitted, only the slightest ounce of guilt present in his tone. Marten said nothing more of it, though, and kept on through the hall, the trip seeming much shorter today as he hauled the wooden door open and ushered Søren out into the field.

What he'd expected to see was a scene like yesterday; a pale purple sky illuminating the few dozen men that were scattered around the field, practicing on their own accord. What he'd not been expecting was playing out in front of him. Søren stepped out into the field, carefully watching his steps as he walked out into the dark yard. It was lit by nothing but the sinking moon as the sun barely even dared show, the castle blocking what little light it would offer. But nonetheless, at least fifty men were already outside, and he could just barely see the glinting metal of their blades in the moonlight.

Any apprehension about the early hour quickly slipped out of his mind, and he turned excitedly to Marten, who simply walked on in front of him, unperturbed that they were going to be using actual swords. Ignoring his nonchalance, Søren followed at his heels, eagerly awaiting his chance to be given his own, even just to use for a short while. It was only a few minutes that they'd waited until an instructor bid them a precaution, something Søren was far too excited to care to listen to, and handed them each a sword. The cool, leather-bound blade was heavy and uncomfortable in his hands, but he couldn't care less.

Marten led them far out into the field, where few people ventured to, 'b'cause you've never used a sword before, Søren, and I don't want any casualties.' And though he'd protested, he eventually gave in, and between Marten's own knowledge and the many instructors' lectures to the crowd, he slowly but surely understood how to use it.

"You don't aim to kill now," Marten had said after nearly an hour of showing Søren first how to wield the sword, then how to swing it without nearly taking his own eye out, "but you will on the battlefield. Be quick - " the overeager man took this as a prompt to swing, but the other dodged it easily "- and you won't have any issues."

Søren simply nodded, swinging the sword quite haphazardly as Marten attempted to show him, once again, how to hold it.

"Two hands, use _two_ hands," he'd said, exasperated, as the sky glowed pale blue and the sun rose above the towers of the castle. "Y'won't do any damage if you aren't careful."

Søren merely rolled his eyes, moving his left hand to grasp the sword with both hands, though still swiped just as haphazardly as before.

"You're hopeless..."

Two more hours passed, the only progress being made was that of Marten's patience growing shorter, before they'd ended up calling it quits. Søren, unperturbed by his apparent failure, had shifted easily back into working around the castle; Marten, however, was still harping on him, even once they'd reached the cellar and began lugging things upstairs. It was only when the perpetually bubbly Tino had called down to them that he'd finally let it go

"Marten, come with me, someone wants to talk to you," he said quickly, words slipping from his tongue fast enough that neither of them quite registered what he'd said. "Søren, we'll be in the Great Hall when we're done, meet us there!"  
And with that, Tino and Marten disappeared down the hall, leaving Søren on his own. He remained in the cellar for a while, searching for the sacks of flour they'd been bringing up before. But when finally emerged from the basement and tried to make his way to the great hall, he'd found himself wandering, clueless, around the castle, circling blocks of rooms as he convinced himself that no, of course he hadn't passed that room three times, that was impossible. His arms grew weary as he hauled the sack of flour around, but with a tired sigh, he continued on. The stone halls of the castle offered little comfort and seemed almost hostile, especially considering he was without his usual knowledgeable company. And so, when he'd come to the same crossroads he'd seen more than enough times that day, it took all his willpower to give in and turn into the barren, dimly lit hallway.

It didn't take him long to realise why nobody had been walking through. Loud voices rang through the hall, argumentative tones carrying clear in their words. Søren recognised none of them, but he couldn't help eavesdropping on their conversation. Quietly, he crept towards the source of the voices, not surprised to find a large locked door, carved as intricately as the doors of the great hall. He was soon able to gather that something important was happening, and he was likely not supposed to be witnessing it.

"All I'm saying is that is makes little sense – he's no longer legitimate," someone said, their voice deep and tone sharp. Someone else made to interject, a short sound escaping them, but they were interrupted by the man. "It's not right, it's not _fair_."

"And who are you to say that?" A different voice, this one far calmer though Søren could hear the warning in his tone. "You've only been involved with us for ten years, you don't have the right-"

"I most certainly-"

"Don't you _dare_ interrupt him!" A third voice shrieked, ice cold and tone one warning. "Don't you _dare-_ "

Søren's concentration was cut short, however. Between a quieter voice from behind him and a string of angered words in a language he didn't understand ringing from the room next to him, he was brought from his focused state back to reality.

"What are you doing?" The woman behind him asked, making him jump in surprise as he whirled around to see who it had been. He recognised her immediately, her wide, mischievous grin and dusty brown hair giving her away. Magdalena quirked an eyebrow at him, taking him by the arm and quickly leading him away from the room. "Did you get lost?"

"Sort of," Søren admitted sheepishly, not protesting as she pulled him away from the room and took the heavy burlap sack from him. "I'm still not too sure where everything is around here."

"You're headed to the kitchen again, I assume?" She smirked at him, continuing down the hall, her pace only slowing once they'd left the hallway. "I'll take you. I'm going there anyway."

Søren had wanted to ask her about what had been going on in that room, but judging by her haste it was likely something she didn't wish to speak about. "Thank you- Magdalena, was it?" He asked, trying to make conversation as they walked through another hallway, this one much more crowded.

"So formal," she said, letting out a sarcastic groan. "Call me Lena. And _you_ are..?"

"Søren Andersen," He replied, a bit too proudly for someone with such indigent ties to his name. To the kingdom, the only thing Andersen meant was a brave soldier too-soon gone and his now poor family. But at Lena's raised eyebrows and broadening smile, he knew she recognised the former before the latter.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she said after a moment, whirling around to quickly shake his hand as she continued on, walking backwards. "Anders was a great man – I thought you looked a little familiar yesterday. You really are the spitting image of your father."

Søren smiled at her words. Seldom had he heard such sentiments, even if it was such a short statement. He thanked her sincerely, squeezing her hand before the two let go. Lena turned back around to face forward after a moment, speaking up a few seconds later.

"Let's see if you can live up to his name," she said half joking as they turned another corner, this hall looking much more familiar to Søren. "You seem to be a bright young man. I think you'll be just fine."

"Let's hope," Søren replied, a smile still present on his face. He'd wanted to retort with something a bit more sarcastic, something about him getting lost or his lack of fighting skills. But her words, though her tone was casual, were worth more than a joking reply.

They let the conversation drop, and shortly after Søren had let his thoughts slip from his tongue. He hadn't really meant to, but between the silence stretching between the two and his childlike curiosity, he couldn't help but ask her about the conversation he'd heard before.

"What were they doing back there? What with all the yelling and cursing?" He'd asked, immediately wishing he hadn't spoken. Lena, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed, despite a tired sigh that escaped her.

"There's been some… Animosity between some people recently. Higher-ups in the castle aren't agreeing with the other kingdoms', stuff like that." She sighed again, her usual air of happiness traded for one of irritation. They turned a corner, and Søren's eyes met the carved doors of the great hall. "It's not like it's ever been completely calm here, but we've seen better days to say the least. Nothing to concern yourself with though, it all usually gets cleared up sooner than later. I'll have a bit of say in it, even if not directly."

"Good to know," Søren said, curious about what she'd meant, but he smiled down at her nonetheless. He held open the door for her, and she easily slipped underneath his arm and into the great hall. There, Marten and Tino sat waiting for him at a nearby table, and the same tall, dark haired woman from the day before had turned on her rushed over to Magdalena.

"I've got to go now, Søren," Lena said as soon as the other woman had come up to her, not even allowing her time to talk. "I'll put in a good word for you!" She waved a goodbye to him, and the two women became immediately immersed in a quiet conversation as the taller of the two led Lena out of the room and back the way they'd came.

Søren waved her a quick goodbye as well, turning around once she'd left the room to see Tino and Marten already standing behind him, an apologetic smile on the former's face, while the latter seemed to be hiding smug accomplishment behind a guise of stoicism.

"Sorry we left you like that – it was kind of sudden, we hadn't meant to!" Tino said, curling his arms into his chest as he spoke.

"S'fine, no worries!" Søren said, waving him off with a crooked smile as he fought his burning curiosity, not asking about where they'd gone. "I made it here in the end, so it's fine."

"Good," Tino said, grabbing him by the wrist and bringing him out of the hall. "Because you've got a lot to see. Where did you end up after we left?"

"Down that way," Søren said, tossing his hand behind him in a lazy gesture of direction. "Way down that hall." He drew his words out, Eyes in front of him as Tino led him down a vast stone staircase, people walking with and against them as they treaded, single file, down the steps and continued down the hall.

"You ended up _that_ far?" Tino asked, voice loud as he glanced back at Søren, an incredulous look on his face. "Maybe we shouldn't have left you alone." He laughed at that, though neither of the other two joined him.

"Nobody goes down there." It was Marten who spoke this time, tone quiet and seeming guarded. "It's mostly only servants and assistants to royals who do. We aren't supposed to be there."

"Obviously you didn't get in trouble, though," Tino blurted out, shooting Marten a look of warning as they approached a set of large oak doors. "It's not like it's against rules, we just don't have any need to be there. I'm sure it's fine!"

With Søren feeling a bit more on edge than before, the three stepped out of the building and into a vast sunlit garden. On either side of the yard were arched terraces, while the two entrances led to stone paths that wove around the many patches of flowers, shrubs, and trees to meet. Søren stepped out into the yard, pace sluggish as he looked all around, eyeing every inch. His jaw was slack, eyes wide in an expression only describable as awe as he sauntered along the path.

"It's not bad, right?" Tino's voice brought Søren from his distracted state, and he turned to see Tino looking far less impressed than he should have. "It's nicest here in the spring, when everything is bright and new."

Søren nodded as the other spoke, only half paying attention as he took everything in. Ten minutes had passed before they'd convinced him to leave the garden, and even then it took a dozen promises that they'd be able to come back later. Tino led the group around the castle, making their way slowly through crowded hallways, cramped stairwells, and seemingly endless amounts of rooms. His jovial voice rang through the castle as they walked, explaining everything he could about anything in expansive detail, from the stonework of the walls to the upholstery of the furniture, the potted flowers. He spared no story, and one could easily tell that the castle, though he may have seemed nonchalant about it before, was something he marvelled greatly at.

It was late evening that they'd finally deemed the tour finished, with Søren having seen everything but the Royal Family's quarters and a few other rooms Tino had deemed irrelevant. And while it was a curious thought as to why they'd been allowed to visit so many places within the castle, Søren never questioned it, his eyes still alight hours after they'd finished. Even once their curfew had come, he still smiled brightly at all around him. For a day, he'd let himself be happy and not let his guilt get the best of him. The chains still hung around his neck, and he let them be a force of guidance rather than grief. If he could do it for a day, he could do it for forever.

With each passing day, summer was slipping more and more from the grasp of nature, taking the heaviness from the air and beginning to turn vibrant green to deep gold. But the turning of seasons hadn't deterred Søren; between his falling comfortably into place at the castle as a desendant of the dignified Andersens and advancing every day in his training, Søren couldn't have been happier.

Or so he thought.

It was a windy September afternoon, the unseasonable cold boring into the bones of all on the field, the sun's deceit having dampened everyone's spirits. He, along with the other trainees, had been given a proper sword, though they were instructed only to use the dull side while practicing. He and Marten, as per what became usual in the past weeks, sparred against each other. And while the stoic blond had figured Søren out on their first day of training, it hadn't taken the latter much longer to do the same. Soon enough, they'd become equals, and spent hours upon hours finding new tactics to defeat and better one another.

The two had been sparring for a good few hours, only breaking a few times when their instructors had passed, telling them what they should be doing different. The handle of the blade dug painfully into his palm and the cold winds were unyielding, but Søren didn't care. He'd no reason to pay any attention to the weather nor his own discomfort, not when a man dressed in fanciful violet robes had paraded onto the field, called out his name, along with Marten's and Tino's among others, and requested their presence with the King.

At first, Søren hadn't really understood the magnitude of the situation. He just walked along with the group of a couple dozen men off of the field, still trying to comprehend what was going on. Tino met up with them after a minute, and it was when he saw his excited eyes and wide grin that it all began to sink in. Obviously, if the king wanted to see him, and the rest of the group was buzzing with anticipation, it must have been something incredible.

They all filed into the great hall, where a small group of men in uniform like their own stood expectantly in front of two towering figures at the front of the room, both of which wore flowing robes of navy and gold. They all stood in a row in front of the two royals, a man, with lines etched in his bearded face and grey strands punctuating his dark blond hair, along with a woman, her long, pale hair and still-youthful face looking out of place next to him. It took nobody longer than a few seconds to recognise them, if not by their face then by their status.

The King and Queen of their Kingdom stood before them, the former with a stern look on his face, though his seriousness seemed a mere formality, while the latter wore a soft smile, the corners of her eyes creasing as they passed over the crowd. They all waited eagerly, not speaking a word and staring up at the altar in both bewilderment and anticipation; Søren could hardly find it in himself to breathe, he was so overwhelmed.

"My bright, noble young men," the King said, stepping forward and holding his chin high, commanding attention from all in the room. "It is with great respect that I deliver this message. My men have been observing and testing your strength and ability, and we've come to the conclusion that. . ."

But Søren had stopped listening. He was far too caught up in that he recognised this man's voice, though he couldn't place where he'd heard it. It was a vague memory, and he thought with curiosity that it should have been far more vivid. He held his hands together, tapping his thumbs together as he wracked his mind.

". . . You have all proven your worth and talent, and so you all have been deemed fit for the Royal Guard."

At this, Søren's head shot up, eyes wide and jaw slack. He hadn't expected this at all, he'd simply thought they'd be given some sort of lecture, or just be introduced to the king, which was exciting enough in and of itself. But this… this was far more than he'd ever dreamed of. After only a month, he'd proven himself and gotten what he'd wished for.

"Lidstrom, Nilsen..." he continued, rhyming names off as he stared over the crowd. Søren looked around as he did, and noticed Marten glance up after a moment, eyes wide and eyebrows drawn together as the name _'Forsberg'_ was called. "Olsen, Storgaard…" And the list went on. It wasn't until he'd heard is own name from the King that he'd started to pay attention once more; he was so enraptured, he paid no mind to the eyes on him and the murmurs that settled into the room. "I'll ask that you follow Magdalena and Alvrun out of the Great Hall. They will take you to where you need to go. As for the rest of you, you may do as you wish for the remainder of the day. Tonight, all of you, along with the rest of the soldiers, will join here once more to hold your induction ceremony."

Søren felt like he was frozen to the ground he stood on. He still hadn't quite let it all sink in, but a pull on his sleeve drove him out of his bewildered state, and Tino pulled him towards the door, where Lena stood, smiling widely, next to the dark haired woman – Alvrun, he knew now – she'd always been with. The two held the doors open for them, ushered them into the hall, and led them to one of the only parts of the castle that Søren hadn't been to; the Royals' precinct.

It had only then occurred to him that, as a new member of the Royal Guard, he'd have many more responsibilities than he'd ever expected. It was now his duty to protect both the Kingdom and those watching over it. And as they all filed into a small room, he realised he'd become what he'd always dreamed.

He was led by Alvrun to a dusty suit of armor, silver and bronze and much too big for him, just barely shining under the thick layer of dust. Against it stood a sword, handle worn though the blade was still sharp. Marten was to his right, gingerly holding a sword in his hands. All around the room, men were standing with helmets, armour, and swords of their own. Søren was about to pipe up, and at the collective inhale, he could guess others were as well. But Lena spoke before any of them had had the chance.

"Each of you has had a relative – brother, father, cousin – who was once in the Royal Guard," she said, her usual bright and jovial tone traded for one more serious. She looked around the room, her eyes catching Søren's as she smiled. "They have all left an impact on everyone here, and they have all left their legacies."

"Be it armour, weapons, or anything else," Alvrun said, as if on cue, "they've all left something behind here, and it is now our turn to pass them down to you."

The room was silent for a short while, each of the men standing around the room too absorbed in reminiscence to bother speaking. Søren could only stare ahead, absently clutching the shoulder of this – his _father's_ \- suit of armour. And while he tried, he could not bring himself to feel any sense of pride or honor; instead, he felt cold and harrowed, his face draining of colour as his eyes caught on the torn metal. It was hard to miss, and he swallowed thickly as his eyes trailed along the shredded, bloodstained chest plate. Lena was saying something from behind him, but he couldn't hear her, and hardly realised someone tugging on his shoulder and leading him out of the room shortly thereafter.

It was in a hazy state of mind that Søren wandered out of the castle, clouded eyes mirroring his thoughts. He found himself in the courtyard, sitting down on the stone steps and running his thumb along the rough, cold surface. Until then, the fantasy of being a valiant knight had been what was fueling him. But that fire had started to dwindle, leaving only fumes of false hope and security. Seeing his father's armour, the armour he surely wore in his final hours, was what brought him down to earth; there was nothing glamorous about being a soldier, and it was only then that Søren realised just what he'd gotten himself into.

He heaved a sigh, bowing his head and rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. It wasn't often he was in such a dreary state of mind, but between being punched in the gut with reality and the gruesome thought of his father... No, no, he didn't want to think of that any longer. Søren stared down at the ground, forcing the image of the cobbled walkway below his feet to be the sole image in his mind. He traced the stones with his eyes, barely taking anything in yet still so focused on the task at hand, far too focused to notice anything around him. A long while had passed, the orange reflection of the sun turning to blue as it sank below the castle walls. It wasn't until a pair of leather shoes entered his field of vision that he looked up, greeted sympathetically by Lena.

"What's got you so down?" She asked, tilting her head to the side, her green eyes bright in the lighting of the dusk. Søren was silent for a long moment, and by the time he'd even made to reply, she piped up again, sitting down beside him in an indignant manner.

"I'm sorry, I probably should have told you about it," she sighed, crossing her legs and propping her head on her elbow. "I knew all about it already, I owed that to you…"

"It's fine," Søren said quickly, barely aware he'd even spoken. "I was going to find out eventually, and… I mean, it's not like I didn't know he died."

"But still!" She cried, letting out a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. "Still, it could have been helped…" Lena trailed off, seeming deep in thought as a scowl twisted her face. A voice from across the yard called after her, though this time it wasn't Alvrun. She rose swiftly and clumsily from her seat, yelled out a quick, "On my way!" and turned to Søren. "I'm sorry – really, I am! – I'll make this up to you, okay? I promise!"

Søren nodded at this, mustering up his most convincing smile as she gave him a flustered goodbye. "We seem to always part like this," he said, laughing sincerely as she did, and waved her a quick farewell. But before she'd even had the chance to hurry off down the path she'd come from, the boy who'd been calling her appeared from the edge of an overgrown blue-flowered bush.

Lena whipped her head around, inhaling sharply and issuing countless apologies as she rushed over to him. Søren looked up at him, and as he caught his eyes and he felt something leap in his chest. His eyes were a startling shade of dark blue, and his pale hair framed his even paler face in an elegant, wispy sort of way. And when he stepped back to allow Lena some room to wallow in apology, he could see his lithe, graceful form, only hidden by his heavy fur-collared cloak. Lena waved Søren a quick goodbye and led the two of them out of the yard, but he hardly noticed; his eyes had were locked to the other man's, and follow his until he was out of sight. It was a few minutes of staring blankly ahead of him until Søren had finally come to his senses, and, even if it was just for a little while, he let himself forget what he was so upset about.


End file.
